Sunday, March 23, 2008

Beat it, till it's bruised and batteredHack at it, till some agreeTear it to shreds, till some are flattered.Colour it, colour it,Till you disfigure it,Stripe it with hideous streaks,Blotch it with garish patches,Dip it into pools of blood,Crown it as the king of freaks,Sprinkle it with stinging spices,Light it with dirty matches.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

It is very very difficult to rhymeAnd make sense at the same time.If “The sky is blue” is your verse’s first line,And you’d like to end the second with “sunshine”.You’ll discover, that ‘sunshine’ doesn’t rhyme with ‘blue,’So you’ll have to say-“I am down with the flu”Or lie in some other preposterous way,That will change what the poem intended to say,Causing the poet soul great pain, wronglyWhen you’re unable to express what you feel so strongly.

A good way to avoid that agony was invented by the great Ogden Nash,Who didn’t really care about convention and with admirable cheek would let his lines continue and reach outrageous lengths till they would finally end with a word that rhymed with the last word of the preceding sentence, and even if he couldn’t find one, would twist it about (like I will proceed to do) till he found a perfect mash.But copying him would hurt my egoAnd soI will be forced to continue writing in blank verse.*curses* but for the sake of rhyming- *curse*

Thursday, March 6, 2008

I generally have some trouble using the four letter word. Sometimes, when I am stretched to breaking point, it's the only thing that gives me relief.Like on the morning of my History exam-I see my friend Basab walk upto me. I see her ashen face, her haunted eyes, and my heart goes out to her. It is a beautiful moment, bound as we are by our mutual distress. "Anushka...." she says. Rarely has a word sounded more like a sigh than it does then. "Fuck", she says. "FuckER", I say. I hope she hasn't misunderstood me. Does she think I just called her a fucker? "FuckEST" she says. Aah...I was underestimating her.

'But you typed that word out a million types within this blogpost', you say. 'Little hypocrite', is what you think to yourself. Well, 'presumptious arse' is my reply. Because, in case you didn't realise it, right now, I am stretched to breaking point.

I had settled down into one of those satisfying states of physical inactivity where your brain is on random-mode overdrive. The melody of the song you were listening to, is washing over you. You're typing out each thought that flits through your head, and if the compilation of those thoughts achieve that perfect balance between suffocatingly clever and just pointless, you could turn it into a blogpost. There was this hum of contentment in the air. Suddenly, I felt a searing pain in one of my legs. My kitten had landed on it, her teeth had landed IN it. Prising her off would hurt more, letting her be was almost unthinkable. Before I grudgingly turned to the former option, her claws decided that they shouldn't be left out of the game. Two ugly swollen red marks on my thigh. Before the damp, bright red spot my elbow (yes, my kitten's doings) could dry up into just a bright red spot. Before the faint red zigzag spanning over the whole of my little finger (also my kitten's doings) could fade away. Before....well you get the point.

First, I cursed myself for wearing shorts. Then I picked her up, shook her till her bones rattled and said "WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING???" Her eyes didn't register ANY change of expression. I threw her onto the bed. She flew through the air. After a graceful landing, she got up, wiggled her butt, leapt off the bed and prepared for another attack on me. Yes, I'm stretched to breaking point.

One of the reasons why this kitten exists, is me. A few months ago, I heard her (then almost new-born) mewing pitifully throughout the entire night. Next morning, I went to my garden to investigate, and discovered her sitting in a corner of a little verandah. The verandah was cluttered with plastic sacks, wood filings and weirdly-shaped rusty metal thingies. And she sat amidst it all, looking dreadfully little, dreadfully frail, and dreadfully alone. So I brought her inside the house. When my dad raised his eyebrows, I cried and told him that I couldn't go to sleep hearing her wail every night at our doorstep. Case rested.

And now, that once-malnutritioned, undersized bag of fur and bones is a fat, bouncy creature with sparkling eyes and thick white fur, who 'purrs' like a carburetor warming up when she's given a piece of meat, who plays the bongo on the head of our great hulk of a hulo beral, and who dissipates excess energy by launching herself on my moisturised skin. And I love her to bits.

P.S-Something frightening's happened!!! After this post, I find myself saying fuck a hell of a lot :O